Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  “Oh, uncle! uncle!” cries my nephew, Gabriel Jorrocks, “I’ve seen the largest rat wot ever was born run into aunt’s pickle closet; do get your blunderbush and shoot it.” And then another day Mrs J. herself comes puffing and wheezing upstairs with, “Well, John, it’s not never no use talking — I can’t live in this house not no longer; I declare it’s swarming with wermin. Just now, as I opened the parlour door, the largest rat wot ever I see rushed out and almost knocked me off my legs.”

  Fretwell. He, he, he! Very good, Mr Jorrocks — very good, sir — but, however, it was a good day’s sport to-day; and now if you’ll allow me to order my bottle, we’ll begin by drinking my lord’s health.

  Jorrocks. Certainly, sir, certainly. I’ll take a bumper to that, heel-taps off and no daylight. Here’s my Lord Seagrave, and may it be long before he sees his grave.

  (The toast is drunk all round, the other sportsmen in the coffee-room joining with three cheers and a view holloa.)

  Fretwell. Our harriers are out to-morrow, Mr Jorrocks, at Andoversford Inn, which you would pass to-day, a little beyond Mr Lawrence’s house, but on the other side of the road. It’s a fine open country, and we will show you some hunting.

  Jorrocks. I should like it werry much, but having first-rate ‘orses of my own, you see I have no pleasure on the backs o’ these hack ‘unters, and have got too large in the abdomen, as the doctors calls it, for running; besides, I think of mizzling in the morning. I came down here to cure an indisgestion, and am all right now, owing to either wine or water — which I can’t say. But now, Mr Fretwell, I should like werry well for you to come and look at the Surrey. You are a man after my own ‘eart — let me fill your glass — Hold steady, I say, or you’ll spoil your top-boots. The Surrey are a fine pack, I say.

  Fretwell. I say my lord’s are a fine pack!

  Jorrocks. I say the Surrey are a fine pack! I say, waiter, another bottle o’ port. I say the Surrey for ever! Come up to London, Mr Fretwell; I’ll find you a nest, and wear and tear for your teeth. Binjimin shall brush your garments. I’ll introduce you to James Green — nicest young man in Tooley Street — beautiful dancer — fine warbler also. Inwite Mr Nimrod to meet you — there’s a man with a cocoa-nut full of knowledge for you! He hiccups Greek, dreams o’ Julius Cæsar, the twelve apostles, and all them ancient Romans, talks Latin by the yard and like a native too — shall get drunk as a dragon every night — so now hold your glass again and let’s drink the SURREY’UNT! May we ne’er want a friend (hiccup) or a bottle (hiccup) to give him. Oh, I’m werry ill! Is Julius (hiccup) Cæsar there? A solemn drink indeed! Oh, John Jorrocks — my good fellow (hiccup) you’re (hiccup) werry drunk indeed. Steady there! Steady! the room’s going round — up and down — up (hiccup) — and down. Take me to bed — whoop! Talli-ho!

  II. HIS OYSTER PARTY.

  “WELL, MR HACKERMANN, what’s the news in Regent Street?” inquired Jorrocks, swaggering into the Eclipse Sporting Gallery the other day, looking as bumptious as a little bantam cock.

  Mr Ackermann. “Why, nothing particular, I think, Mr Jorrocks. Hope you are all well at home, sir?”

  Jorrocks. “Why, yes — we’re werry well — better than usual, in fact, for Mrs J.’s not there. Just given her a travelling ticket for two days, and she’s gone to her mother’s at Tooting. May stop two months if she likes.”

  Mr A. “Won’t you be seated, sir?”

  J. “Thank ’e, thank ’e, but I’m just stepping along to Mr Spiers, to get him to come to me this evening to talk about publishing all that waluable quantity of manuscript that your tarnation fool of an editor has rejected of mine; and I must say, Mr Hackermann, that, considering all the purliteness I have received at your hands, I do werry much regret — for I have a werry great respect for you — werry great indeed — that anything of mine should be given to the public otherwise than through your Mag.; but what can I do? Here’s matter, the bare paper on which it’s written having cost me the matter of atwixt three and four shillings, and containing, I may make bold to say, both original and interesting matter; and yet the more I have sent, the less notice has been taken of my labours, until my last article on Eels, a werry elaborate paper, wherein all possible information relative to these h’animals is given, and an ingenious suggestion for skinning the beggars alive without inconwenience to themselves.”

  Mr A. “Indeed, sir!”

  J. “Quite true, I assure you. In course the skinning alive without inconwenience to the sufferers is a sort of sprat thrown out to catch a herring — a sop to the Humane Society; for though I have h’argued the case strong enough to conwince any one that is not in the habit of thinking for himself, yet I will candidly confess to you — though it mustn’t go further — that I don’t exactly believe it myself, but you see to be read nowadays a man must address himself to the prejudices of the people, and you know humanity is all the h’order of the day — folks protect other people’s donkeys and let their own relations starve. Well, then, you see, as I was saying, this was the last article I offered your Heditor, and I sent it with a hint that unless it was published I should consider he meant to exclude me altogether from the work, and that I should act accordingly. Well, then, you see, yesterday afternoon, you see, back it all comes without ‘note or comment,’ as they said of Miserrimus’s tombstone, and I have had the inexpressible mortification of adding it to the long list of rejected articles. You, Mr Hackermann, are a man, and though you may not be an author yourself, you have to deal with authors and can h’enter into their feelings; and I ask you, what must be mine when I look into my back kitchen cupboard and see the bales of manuscript that I have written for your Magazine that have been rejected? I’ve got a list of them here,” added Jorrocks, pulling a long strip of well-thumbed paper out of his breeches pocket, “which, as you have not been publisher since its commencement, I will just read over to you.” Jorrocks adjusts his spectacles, seats himself amid a profusion of annuals and other Christmas publications on the counter, and proceeds: —

  “The first paper of mine that was returned was during the winter of the first year of the Paternoster Row administration. It was called ‘Thoughts on’Orse Whipping’; and I well remember that I got the lumbago werry bad by standing one cold November day glowering into Griffiths’ paradise of ‘orse whips in Holborn, making myself master of all the warious warieties of thongs and whip - sticks — Malacca, Jambee, Dragon, Rattan, Whangee — all of which I afterwards commented upon, and recommended certain ones to be used for certain species of insult and offence, and so on. I also glanced at the expediency and probable profit to be derived by establishing an ‘orse whipping shop or bazaar, where people could get their friends served out without the inconwenience of doing it themselves, and the article was dedicated without permission to Sir John Milley Doyle, K.C.B., LL.D., &c. It was comprised in two quires of foolscap, and returned as being too long for the work; and yet wot did I see last month but my friend Mr Nimrod occupying five-and-twenty pages for his life of Mittens! But Mr Nimrod’s a gentleman, and I’ll say no more on that score. Well, then, to continue the list: my papers on ‘Scent and Summering the ‘Unter’ have never appeared, though often faithfully promised, both in print and private conversation, and where they are I don’t know. The first one that was returned after you became master of the Magazine was a paper — not werry long, but still werry learned — called ‘Desultory Remarks on the Adwantages to the Commercial World from Encouraging a Breed of Sporting Tradesmen,’ concluding with a complimentary ‘Ode to the Monument’ and a glance at the ‘H’impropriety of Eating Lemon Juice with H’oysters.’ The ‘Ode to the Monument’ was in the same measure as my ‘Ode to Spring,’ published in your fifth volume, and which I have been credibly informed and believe raised the sale of the work one thousand one hundred copies.”

  Mr. A. “Indeed, sir!”

  J. “Quite true, I assure you — but to continue. There was the ‘Flea Hunt’ and the following poetry: —

  “‘Ode to T
he Lumber Troop’ in most heroic measure.

  “‘Stanzas to a Bullfinch’ — mind, not a bird but a hedge. Ask Aiken — he’ll tell you what it is.

  “‘Impromptu on Seeing a Butcher’s Boy leave Two Calves’ Heads at the Marquess Cornwallis’s.’ That’s the public beside me, where I get my swipes.

  “‘Ode to a Dish Clout’; ‘Ditto to a Pair of Tight Top-boots’; ‘Ditto to Sir Herbert Jenner’s Wig’; ‘Ditto to H’Ambition’; ‘Elegy on a Gibblet Pye that was Smashed in Coming from the Baker’s.’ Binjimin did that, confound him, but I licked him well for it.

  “‘Three Odes to the Reform Bill — two for — one against.” These perhaps were not exactly sporting, unless, as your Heditor said, they could be introduced under the head of ‘Sporting with the Constitution.’ But, however, Mr Hackermann, I dare say you are tired of all this, and, I assure you, so am I. Now mind, I doesn’t reproach you — none at all — I know it’s all the fault of your Heditor, but then, you see, you shouldn’t keep such a chap. You should do as the king did to Melbourne, and rely upon it you need not go far for a Wellington. ‘But self-praise we know is all a bubble,’ as the Pig in Trouble in Oxford Street says. Now I won’t detain you no longer. If you have a mind to insist upon your Heditor publishing my articles in your Mag., I will even now, at the eleventh hour, forget and forgive, but, by gum! if you don’t, I’ll arrange with Mr Spiers this werry night for printing them in large quartos; and let me tell you a secret, Mr Hackermann — things read a deuced deal better in type than they do in manuscript. Now, wot say ye?”

  Mr A. “Why, really, Mr Jorrocks, I can hardly give you an answer just now. The Editor is out of town, and if I was to send them to press without his knowledge he might be offended — these gentlemen are very touchy — and if he was to cut the concern I might chance to get a worse; and then, you see, my colour business requires so much looking after that I should not have time to edit it myself.”

  J. “Never fear, Mr Hackermann, you shall not want assistance as long as I’m above ground. Make a bold stand and a rush, and the game’s your own. I tell you the old hog tub is beat, and can never rally. Look,” said he, taking up the great five-shilling double number for December, “did mortal man ever see such a concern? It’s made up of coursing meetings, the dregs of the racing calendar, and thrice-told tales. A man should be paid for reading the Quartogenarian’s articles; and the steeplechase in the Vale of Aylesbury is taken word for word from ‘Bell’s Life.’ As to their plates—”

  Mr A. “Very bad indeed — very bad.”

  J. “Now’s the time, Mr Hackermann! Spur your steeds — touch up your leaders, doublethong your wheelers, stir up Mr Nimrod, send to the Yorkshireman, give us plenty of hunting pictures — nothing but hunting, in fact, I say; and, above all, insist upon your Heditor publishing my articles! I’ll tell you wot, however: it’s now half-past three; consider of them this afternoon, and come to my house when you shut up shop, to meet Mr Spiers and have a few h’oysters, and we can talk the thing over quietly together.”

  Mr A. “Well, I’ve no objection to that, Mr Jorrocks — though I’m afraid I shall hardly be prepared to give you an answer unless the Editor returns before then.”

  J. “Well, but you can eat a few h’oysters at all events?”

  Mr A. “Oh, certainly, sir, certainly — much pleasure, I’m sure. There will be nobody there but Mr Spiers and myself, I presume, sir?”

  J. “Only James Green. You know Mr Green of Tooley Street? Jemmy Green.”

  Mr A. “I’ve heard of him, sir, but never saw him to my knowledge. However, I’ll be with you a little before eight, sir, and have the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”

  J. “Werry good — and now I’ll call at Mr Spiers’ and bespeak him. Good morning, Mr Hackermann.”

  Exit Jorrocks.

  About half-past seven the invited guests arrived in Great Coram Street in a cab, Mr Ackermann having called to take up Mr Spiers on his road. Betsey answered the knock, Benjamin being engaged with Jorrocks in the dining-room; but judge of the visitors’ astonishment at seeing at least a dozen hats ranged on the sideboard!

  “Why, I thought we were to be all alone, Mr Jorrocks, with the exception of Mr Green,” said Mr Ackermann, eyeing the hats in an evident state of perturbation.

  “And so you are,” said Jorrocks. “Indeed, you’ll be quite alone for an hour or so, for I did not inwite Green till eight, and these fashionable Tooley Street bloods are generally half an hour behind time; but I see what you are driving at — you think these hats have each a cocoanut belonging to them upstairs. No such thing, I assure ye... but now hang up your tiles, gentlemen, and come upstairs for the present, and you’ll see all and how about it at suppertime. I want you to consider the subject of my papers before Green arrives, for he’s such a regular gammon-and-spinach chatterbox sort of chap, there’s no doing business where he is.”

  This proposition being acceded to, the trio proceed to the drawing-room, where, the candles being lighted, Jorrocks produced an old two-dozen hamper, containing nearly all the articles he had ever written. “Now, gentlemen,” said he, fishing up a regular whale of an affair, “this is the treatise upon ‘Eels’ that I mentioned to you this morning. Mortal eye has never seen it except your editor’s, and I consider his opinion of it as little worse than none. You shall decide upon its merits.”

  He unties the cord with which it is bound, and, having flattened the paper and given two or three preparatory hems, was just going to inflict the whole treatise upon them, when... the door opens, and Benjamin announces “Mr James Grin.” In a second or two Jemmy is heard tripping upstairs, taking two steps at a time, until he reaches the landing, when with a hop, step, and jump he bounds into the middle of the room.

  “My dear Mr Jorrocks,” said he, seizing the grocer’s paw, and shaking it as if it had been the handle of a pump, “may you live for a thousand years, and I be there to count ’em.”

  Jorrocks. “Thank’e, my dear Green; you’re always the high-bred man — always something elegant to say both to man and woman — but allow me to introduce you to Mr Hackermann and Mr Spiers.”

  Green was dressed in the height of fashion — at least of Tooley Street fashion — and perhaps a description of his garments may be useful to the Editor of the ‘Gentleman’s Magazine of Fashion’ next month. His hempen hair boasted its usual cauliflower curl, and stood from his head like the roof of a Swiss cottage. He wore a fine, stiff, black sarcenet stock, with an innumerable constellation of studs on his shirt. His coat was either light blue or light green, which, it was difficult to decide by candle-light, made very full at the hips and wide in the laps, like a groom’s, with sugar-loaf buttons (this latter being, doubtless, out of compliment to Jorrocks), and with this elegant dress garment he sported a white waistcoat, a pair of brownish, tightish, leather trousers, and opera boots.

  Having shuffled himself into a chair, Jorrocks and he commenced a long series of inquiries into the health and prosperity of their mutual acquaintance. The treatise on ‘Eels’ and all the other valuable articles were totally forgotten, and before the conversation could flag so as to give an opportunity of harking round to them again, Betsey came to announce that the oysters were ready.

  “Talli-ho!” cried Jorrocks. “Forward, away! forward, away!” and taking the lead, down they all brushed to the supper-room, the novelty of the decorations whereof must be our excuse for introducing them to the reader.

  The sideboard, which was the first object that attracted attention, supported a fine, large, bright-burning lamp whose effulgent rays threw a brilliant halo over ten hats, eight black ones and two white, all ranged in a circle round it. Three of these — viz., the front and two side hats, were filled with evergreens and foxes’ brushes, while the rest were set out to the best advantage. In the middle of the table stood another hat acting as a sort of epergne, filled also with evergreens and artificial flowers, into which a couple of wax lights were introduced, and round it were fou
r barrels of oysters, four pounds of butter, and four loaves of bread.

  “Now, gentlemen,” said Jorrocks, “let every man pick his own barrel — they are of equal size — and if any of you can eat more Luckey has promised to keep his shop open an hour beyond time — so now fall to! There’s beer in abundance, and my Lord Cornwallis’s tap is open till past eleven, and you needn’t be afraid of running him dry.”

  They all fall to, and a tremendous rush ensues, in the course of which the oyster shells are scattered in all directions — gradually the pace relaxes, and Green begins to titivate his appetite by putting a few on the bars. Jorrocks himself at last ‘throws up,’ declaring that he had fairly burked his appetite. Betsey and Benjamin enter and clear the decks, leaving the hat epergne on the table; and Ben brings a low three-legged stool which he sets before the fire, on which a fine log is burning, and places upon it a smart blue-painted horse-pail, with the words—” Jorrocks. Waste not Want not,” and some hunting devices fancifully painted round it.

  “This, Mr Hackermann,” said Jorrocks, holding it up, “is a new fashioned punch-bowl — my own idea, and a most original one it is. I’ve never had but one brew in it, when it worked admirably. Now, Benjamin, bring the lemons, and Batsay, bring the bottles — rum and brandy mixed is the stuff — two bottles of brandy and one of rum. Mr Spiers will squeeze the lemons while Mr Hackermann stirs the liquor — I’ll pound the sugar-candy, and you, James Green, must tip us a stave. Sing us that of old Simon Simpkins’s — wot do they call it? About the ‘Jolly Good Hunt,’ you know.”

  Green. “Ah! Well I’ll try it, but if it makes you faint, gentlemen, remember it’s no fault of mine.” Green sticks his fingers through his hair, clears his throat, extends his right hand, and proceeds while the rest of the party are busy brewing.